


Faster Pussycat

by SS_Shitstorm



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Hair metal references everywhere, I pretty much listen exclusively to hair metal writing this, Master/Pet, Petplay, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Xeno, what do you mean it's not the 80's anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5821591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SS_Shitstorm/pseuds/SS_Shitstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A normal, sane, not tipsy person might take pause upon the knowledge that their car suddenly started talking back to them. You however, are none of those things.</p>
<p>“Dude. My car sounds like a babe.” you say slowly, blinking.</p>
<p>“Why, thank you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No I don't actually hate Motley Cru.
> 
> I want to apologize for the lyrics but not really because like half the appeal of doing sexy things to a car in a garage is leaving the radio on and blasting hair metal.
> 
> Smut to follow. This is gonna be a 2 part-er and I'm not enough of a dick to leave fellow robot-fuckers high and dry.

“ _He's the one they call Dr. Feelgood”_

 

 

*kick*

 

“ _He's the one that makes ya feel alright”_

 

*kick*

 

“ _He's gonna be your Frankenstein~”_

 

*crash*

 

You put your foot through the garage radio on your third attempt with a sloppy, ill aimed kick. You smile smugly, because you really don’t want to hear about feeling good right now, because fuck feeling good, and mostly because _take that Motley Cru.”_

 

You drain your beer, crumple it, and toss it towards the trashcan, where it misses perfectly and lands directly beside it’s intended target. You swear under your breath. Today wasn’t a good day. Today wasn’t even a bad day. Today was the shittiest stuff of legend kind of bad day that would go down in the history of suck.

 

Today you’d hit every.single.stoplight on the way to work. Today there was an automobile accident directly in front of your workplace, which took another 20 or so minutes to navigate past. Today you were nearly an hour late. Today you were fired. And a long day of fuming and doing jack shit you’d come home to find a sock hanging on the front door and every subsequent door dead bolted because your roommate had decided today was the day she’d fuck her boyfriend on every surface in the house and also probably on your stuff.

 

Today, you decide, however, is not going to be the day you become the primary suspect in a double homicide, so you decide to spent the night in the garage with your car. You grin wickedly. If there’s one thing you’d one up your roommate with, it’s your car.

 

It’s beautiful. _He’s_ beautiful, you decide, because it is a he. A candy-apple red purrs like a big cat drop dead _gorgeous_ kind of he who just so happened to have a cold 24 pack in the trunk you don’t remember buying. So you’d thanked him and, having nothing planned for the rest of the night, cracked open a beer. Or two. Or eight.

 

Which is where you find yourself now, throwing sloppy roundhouse kicks at your only other source of entertainment, which is now on the ground fizzling and emitting smoke.

 

“Fuck.” you mutter under your breath. You sigh. You slouch down to inspect the remains of the radio. It’s beyond repair. It’s completely fucked and not even yours and you’re going to have to pay for this shitty thing and you honestly feel like crying a little bit. Fuck your life. _Fuck_ it.

 

You nearly jump out of your skin when your car radio snaps on.

 

“ _Pour some sugar on me  
Ooh in the name of love”_

 

You stop your almost crying. You ignore the radio on the floor. You’ve got eight beers in you and a sexy, sleek, _sympathetic_ car to keep you company. There’s nothing to be sad about.

__  
“Pour some sugar on me  
C'mon fire me up”

 

And you _do_ have eight beers in you, so you decide to reward your considerate automobile by giving him a nice, slow wax job because why not? Your dickbag roommate gets to spend all night with _her_ man, it’s only fair you get some quality alone time with yours.

 

You get the wax from the bottom shelf, purposefully bending over as far as possible and arching your back a little, humming quietly as you unscrew the lid and wet the sponge.

 

“ _Pour your sugar on me  
Ooh I can't get enough”_

 

“Just a precaution “ you tell him as you peel your shirt off and throw it over your shoulder. “Don’t wanna get wax on it. Or these.” you say as you unbutton your shorts and slip them off your legs, leaving you in nothing but a leopard print bra and a pair of curve-hugging black boy shorts.

 

You sway your hips with the music as you begin to work the sponge over the hood in slow, deliberate circles, splaying as much of your body as possible over the hood, biting your lip as you drag your breasts across the surface and straddle the guard with your legs. You shudder as the engine kick on, which would have scared sober you shitless, but drunk you has no such reservations and only moans softly as you grind your hips against him, letting the vibrations of the engine pulse through you.

 

“ _I'm hot, sticky sweet  
From my head to my feet, yeah”_

 

 

You pout as the song ends, conveniently just as you’ve run out of surface to wax. Which would suck, if you didn’t have leather finisher to clean the interior with. Which you _totally_ do.

 

“You like that don’t you?” you purr as you open the door and step inside one leg at a time. “Like me crawling in here and rubbing down _every inch_ of your interior, don’t you?”

 

“I do.”

 

You freeze. A normal, sane, not tipsy person might take pause upon the knowledge that their car suddenly started talking back to them. You however, are none of those things.

 

“Dude. My car sounds like a _babe.”_ you say slowly, blinking.

 

“Why, thank you.”

 

You giggle, sliding yourself into the back seat, dropping your bottle of leather finisher on the way in.

 

“Clearly I can’t keep calling you ‘babe’, that’s dated as hell.” you say, lazily regarding the roof, which is spinning slightly. “So what do I call you?”

 

“The name’s Knockout.”

 

“Mmm.” you hum contentedly. “Sounds about right.” you roll over onto your back, trailing your fingers down the edge of your panties. “Tell me Knockout. What would you do to me right now? I mean, if you weren’t a car?” you purse your lips, sliding your fingers just beneath the waistline. “Would you fuck me like this?”

 

“Actually, I’d kidnap you and make you my assistant.”

 

Your eyes widen in surprise.

 

“What-”

 

Before you have time to react he kicks into reverse and peels out of your garage, out of your driveway and takes off down the road at 60 mph, the force of the acceleration smacking you against the rear window with a distinctive _thud._

 

And it’s then you remember, with a sobering throb in the back of your likely bruised head, that _you don’t have a car_.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this stupid thing was like pulling teeth holy crap when did smut become such a chore.
> 
> headcanon is that KO is closet weeaboo trash.

 

 

 

 

 

“A little to the left, Nurse.”

  
  
“Don’t call me that.” you growl

  
  
“I’m sorry. Would you prefer ‘pet‘?”

  
  
“No.”

  
  
“Organic scum?”

  
  
“No.”

  
  
“Disgusting fleshy freak of nature?”

  
  
“For the last time no.” you snarl,  resisting the urge to slam your head against the back of his helm  
  
_"Just my luck."_ you think ruefully. Just your luck that this gorgeous car that turned out to be a gorgeous _alien_ also turned out to be a gorgeous _asshole_ that was repulsed by the mere notion of organic life. Why he even bothered to keep you around was initially a mystery to you, as the tasks he had you perpetuating (mostly waxing, buffing and polishing) seemed better suited to one of his other shipmates and not tiny, inept organic hands.  
  
  
_“Yes yes, my partner got eviscerated, reconstructed by an evil human scientist and infected by some unidentifiable reanimation virus, I’m sure you’ve heard it all before.”_  
  
_You raise your eyebrow. “Actually, no, I haven’t.”_  
  
_His optic twitches in irritation. “Then let me simplify it for you. : My partner’s dead, spark’s crushed, I need a new assistant and you’re the only one that’s come close to working the buffer like he did.”_  
  
In hindsight, it makes sense. You did accept not one, but eight drinks from a strange vehicle in your garage without a second thought, and you did drop your clothing to give a wax job with 80’s hair metal as your only prompt. You might not be a sentient transforming alien death machine, but even you could follow the brand of logic that would lead one to believe you’d make a great exotic pet/ automobile massage therapist.  
  
Which is where you find yourself now, working polish into the shoulder plating of a very narcissistic, very demanding, very _flamboyant_ muscle car.  
  
“Mmm, get the neck cabling next, would you?” he murmurs, optics half lidded in obvious relaxation.”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“I said ‘fine’“ you blow out a breath, turning your head to hide your stupid blushing face.  
  
No, what _doesn’t_   make sense is that even though he‘d kidnapped you, forced you to work against your will, and made it painfully clear that the very idea of your existence made his tanks churn, you are still very thoroughly enjoying your position as a slave/masseuse, ravishing every opportunity to get to put your creepy little organic hands on his frame and gluing your eyes to his perfectly sculpted aft when he struts away satisfied .  
  
Yes, you’re a disgrace to humans everywhere, yes you spend most of your free time fantasizing about the happy endings you’ve never worked up the courage to offer and _Yes,_ you still want a piece of that high speed aft. _Bad._  
  
Still, insistent as he was that his distaste for organics was a species wide condition, you knew better. You’d personally met a female scientist Starscream kept in his private laboratory for undisclosed reasons, though your interaction had been a brief one.  
  
_“You interface with him yet?” the tired, sick, albeit smart looking young women had asked you while clutching her head._  
  
_“No.” you start, unsure. “What’s interface mean?”_  
  
_“It means hands down the best 30 minutes of your entire life.” she grins wickedly as she leans against the wall for support, digging her fingers into her tortured cranium. “But it’s not worth it. Holy hell it’s NOT worth it.”_  
  
_“Why?”_  
  
_She starts laughing and delivers a slurred info dump that mostly goes over your head, though you’d definitely caught a few choice phrases like “halfbreed” and “genetically compatible” and “smug sonovabitch made me beg.”_  
  
She’d spent the rest of the conversation doubled over and muttering curses under her breath. Fortunately you’d been spared the need to excuse yourself from this delightful train wreck as the intruder alarm had been activated and you’d been hastily shuffled back to the med bay.  Any attempts you’d made to get Knockout to actually explain interfacing to you were generally met with a disgusted shudder followed by an organic slur, or laughter. Or both.  
  
So you’d filed that particular conversation under “worrisome misc.” in your brain and hadn’t had much reason to pull it back up.  
  
  
Until today, that is.

  
  
Because today, after you’d finished your routine polishing,  as the medic asks you to pull up blueprints for whatever bizarre alien device he’s working on, you find hidden among the indecipherable squiggles of cybertronian language a file written in Japanese. A file that’s nearly a terabyte in size. A file that you open despite every fiber of your brain warning you not to. A file that contains-  
  
_“Holy shit.”_  
  
“Hey Knockout,” you start, the beginnings of a big, doofy smile spreading over your face. “You find organics disgusting right?”  
  
“To the very pit of my spark.” he replies, darting his optics away from the examination table for only a split second. “Mind explaining that slag-eating grin you’re wearing?”  
  
“That depends,” you say, rotating the screen towards his faceplate. “Mind explaining why you downloaded every byte of catgirl porn from the known internet?”  
  
He freezes. His jaw unhinges. He drops his wrench.  
  
 You smirk.  
  
“You willing to talk about interfacing now?” you ask smugly “Or do I bring this over to Shockwave and ask for a demonstration?”  
  
“How did you…?”  
  
“It’s  the only folder not named in your native language. Kinda obvious. Kinda glaringly  obvious, if you ask me.” you say, humming to yourself as you turn the screen back around. “Tell me, how do millions of images of squishy, disgusting organics dressed up like other squishy, disgusting organics find their way onto the desktop of someone like you?”  
  
“They…they’re not…they’re _different!_ ” he sputters, suddenly looking incredibly exposed and vulnerable, disregarding the metallic skin and massive height difference  
  
 “Uh huh…” you agree sarcastically “You‘re what my species would refer to as ‘in the closet,’ and Sweet Jesus are you in deep. I’m going to go out on a limb and assume no one else has seen this, right?”  
  
“Correct, and primus willing it _stays_ that way.” he growls, abandoning the table to loom over you with all the grace of an enraged bull elephant and you feel yourself wilt a little under his gaze. “You never saw this, got it? This stays squarely between you and I.”  
  
“Oh but I did see it.” you say, narrowing you eyes. “And it’s going to take some serious convincing to keep me from spreading this around the ship.”  
  
“How convincing does ‘I’ll eviscerate you’ sound?” he sneers, sweeping you up in his servo before you have a chance to protest and holding you level with his face. “I can easily hunt down another human that knows how to work a buffer.”  
  
“I don’t doubt that” you admit, gripping his servo for dear life to balance yourself. “But you’re gonna be hard pressed to find another human female willing to put on a costume and meow for you.”  
  
He says nothing for a beat, raising his optical ridge in curiosity.  
  
“Are…are you…you couldn’t possibly be suggesting…”  
  
“That’s _exactly_ what I’m suggesting you dense fuck!” you snarl, turning you head to hide your flushed face. “Did you forget I stripped down to my panties just to give you a wax job? Or that I was dry humping your hood? Primus, I crawled into your back seat fully intent on _finishing_ myself if you hadn’t peeled out of my driveway.” you say, outright _panting_ at this point. “If a stupid costume is all it takes to get you to notice me then I’ll wear it. I’ll put the damn collar on and meow and drink milk, anything to get your engines revving because damnit  you’re _hot_.”  
  
He blinks, his expression a delightful mix of stupor and thinly-veiled elation.  
  
“Is this what your kind refers to as ‘Stockholm’s syndrome?’” he asks, tilting his helm. “…Not that I’m complaining.”  
  
“Considering that I was ready and willing before you brought me here, no, probably not.” you assure him as he sets you down on the table. “So yeah. We can swing by a costume shop and I’ll pick out something you like because damn if I’m not a thirsty sonovabitch.”  
  
“Try to contain your spontaneous overloads for a moment. That won’t be necessary. I already have the costume.”  
  
“How the hell, wait, no, when the hell did you have time to do that?”  
  
“The night I picked you up of course.” he says matter of factly “I couldn’t go out and buy the thing myself so I had it shipped to a randomly generated location. Lucky for me, there just so happened to be an eager little organic vixen already habituating there.”  
  
Your eyes widen. “So the beer…you…you planned all of this?”  
  
“Went off without a hitch.” he smirks. “Devilish, isn’t it?”  
  
“Then,” you swallow hard, failing spectacularly at the simple task of forming words “Why did you pretend to hate me, hate _all_   organics for months?”  
  
“Because pussycat,” he begins, lifting your chin up to meet his optics with a single digit. “I wanted to watch you beg.”  
  
  
  
  
**********************************  
  
  
You should feel ridiculous. You should feel like some sort of silly, over the top, deviant roleplaying freak.  
  
But you don’t. The costume, despite it’s ridiculous complexity, from the fake fangs down to the eerily realistic ears and tail, fits you like a furry, weeaboo glove. You’re pretty sure you look good. You’re pretty sure you’re wearing the hell out of this fuzzy abomination, and when you round the corner to meet Knockout’s “Christmas came early” expression and unconsciously revving engines, it’s all the confirmation you need that you are, in fact, hot as _hell._  
  
Ridiculous? Please. Ridiculous can go fuck itself tonight, because tonight you’re a motherfucking _tiger_ and you’re going to lay some queen of the jungle love on this metallic god’s sweet ass.  
  
“Ah ah,” the medic scolds, waving his finger accusingly. “On all fours, pussycat.”  
  
Scratch that. Tonight you’re a housecat. Oh well. You expertly ignore the humiliation prickling at the back of your neck and lower yourself to the floor.  
  
“Better?” you ask, tilting your head.  
  
“Much.” he leans back into his position on the berth , servo extended in a perfect come hither pose. “Now come to papa.”  
  
You obey, crawling towards him on hands and knees, swaying your hips to swish your tail back and forth, biting your lip seductively with a single fang. He pats the side of the berth invitingly.  
  
“Up up.”  
  
Your eye twitches a little, but you comply nonetheless and manage to spring yourself onto the berth in a semi-graceful fashion. He smiles, pulling you onto his chassis, running his servos through your hair in slow, gentle strokes, and-  
  
-Oh god he’s petting you.  
  
“Um, not to be rude or anything,” you start, leaning into his servo because it actually feels kinda _nice._   “But when do we get down to the actual…y’know…interfacing?”  
  
“When we’re good and ready.” he replies, voice lower, huskier than normal. “And we’ll get there at lot faster when you stop breaking character.”  
  
“Fine.” you sigh, eyes closed, relaxing into his touch. “I’m ‘pussycat’ or ‘kitty’, we’ve established that much. But what do I call you?”  
  
A soft ’clink’ brings you back to reality as he secures a collar around your neck, holding the leash in his spare servo.  
  
“Master has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”  
  
You swallow nervously. You’d known from the getgo this wasn’t going to be a nice, normal vanilla close encounter of the seventh kind, but this is a little much. This is almost out of your comfort zone.  
  
_Almost._  
  
“Master.” you confirm, raising your paws up to your face in the most stereotypical adorable catgirl pose you can fathom. “What are we going to do on the bed? Nyaa?”  
  
His engines rev so loudly you briefly worry your ears are bleeding. He grabs you by the collar, fixing you with a gaze smoldering enough to be considered a legal fire hazard in most countries.  
  
“We’re making kittens.”  
  
The rooms spins. There’s suddenly no berth, no up or down, only Knockout on top of you pinning you down as he forces his glossa into your mouth. You struggle for a moment, panicked at the sudden movement, but a firm tug of your leash reminds you to stay put like a good pet and you relax into the kiss, letting your body go limp against his frame.  
  
He groans his approval into your mouth, sliding his servos down to your ass to pull your panties down. You’re ready, you’ve _been_ ready and when you hear the distinct clinking of his paneling receding you’ve made of up your mind to just impale yourself on his spike, but you’re still restrained and you find yourself struggling helplessly beneath him.  
  
“Fuck you.” you seethe, eyes watering as he traces slow, deliberate circles around your clit. “Fuck you for making me wait for months and not even having the decency to _nygh_ use your spike.”  
  
“My my, that doesn’t sound like something a kitty would say,” and you shudder as he stops cold, pulling your leash to forcibly level your face with his “-now does it?”  
  
“Meow?”  
  
“No, do it like a _Japanese_ cat.”  
  
“Alright fine you neurotic, anime loving, anal- retentive, weaboo-tra _~nyaan!”_   you cry out as he slips his index and middle finger into you, pace tortuously slow as he strums your clit with his thumb.  
  
“Good girl,” he smirks, optics narrowed to slits. “Now purr for me.”  
  
“Nu uh.” you refuse. “you’re gonna have to do more than that to-” you immediately shut up as he withdraws his fingers, leaving you in wanting agony. “I-I mean m-master _please.”_  
  
“My, don’t we learn fast.” he murmurs, resting his helm beneath your collarbone, ex-venting hot against your skin. “Now, _purr.”_  
  
You redirect every iota of willpower you have into maintaining a gentle, mimicking rumble as he works his glossa over your breasts, humming contentedly with his gentle, teasing ministrations as he presses a third digit into you. You want to protest, to beg, to say something but you know better and can only arch your back and squirm, desperately grinding against his servo.  
  
You’re close, so close, and despite the struggle to keep quiet and stay in character you’re ready to break against him, and so you bite your lip painfully hard, wrap your paws around him and buck your hips unconsciously into his movements, almost, almost.  
  
“Not yet.” and you feel some vital part of you snap as he removes his servo, the smuggest, most domineering, most _punchable_ expression on his face and you actual hiss at him for being the cruel bastard that he is.  
  
He chuckles, low and throaty, amused, as he pushes himself upright and takes a hold of your leash once more.  
  
“On your knees, pussycat.”  
  
“ _Fuck you._ ”  you hiss again, kneeling down against the berth  
  
“Lower.”  
  
You consider hissing a third time, but only bare your fangs as you comply.  
  
“There we go.” he smirks infuriatingly for a split second and you watch, dumbfounded as he ties the leash to the side of the berth, forcing you into a face-down-ass-up position.  
  
A distant, nagging voice in the back of your head tells you that this is _horrible_ ,  that this is humiliating and dehumanizing and degenerate and for a moment you consider struggling against your restraints, attempting to free yourself and flee like a well-adjusted, civilized human being. That voice is promptly silenced when you feel the medic’s weight on your back, the grinding rumble of his engines, frame thrumming deliciously against your skin as the weeping head of his spike comes to rest against your inner thigh.  
  
“Ready pussycat?” he murmurs against your skin, helm resting between your shoulder and neck.  
  
“Y-yes master.” you squeak, unable to keep your voice from shaking. “I’m ready.”  
  
“Ready for what?”  
  
“Y-your spike.” a shiver runs down your spine as he rubs the tip against your pussy. _Teasing._ the sick bastard is 99.9% _teasing._  
  
“That’s right you are. You’re positively _soaking_.” and _fuck_ if he keeps this up you’re going to die. Just straight up have a heart attack and die from _not_ getting fragged.  
  
“P-please-!” you beg, on the verge of tears. “I’ll say anything you want just please don’t make me wait anymore!”  
  
“I think you already know what I want.” he leans in, vocal processor flush against your ear. “Purr for me.”  
  
You inhale sharply, steady your shaking self, swallow the last remaining shred of your dignity, and purr.  
  
“Good kitty.”  
  
He’s inside you. Finally he’s _inside_   you and you want to cry with relief. But relief is short lived because mass reconciliation or no, he’s still positively gigantic by human standards and not only had you severely underestimated the circumference of his spike, you’d severely _overestimated_ your capacity to handle it.  
  
You cry out, the beginning of a scream building in your throat but thankfully he covers your mouth with his spare servo before you have the chance to alert the entire ship.  
  
“Shhhhh” his voice uncharacteristically compassionate “Are you hurt?”  
  
“A little.” you admit, wincing, breathing labored. “It’s…it’s too…I didn’t expect…”  
  
“Calm down.” he runs a servo through your hair reassuringly. “Do we need to take a break?”  
  
You shake your head. “N-no” you relax against him, his voice ludicrously soothing as you slowly adjust to his size. “Just…I-I think we need to take it slow.”  
  
“We’ll go as slow we need to.” he assures you. “Let me know if it hurts again. I’ll stop.”  
  
And with that he begins to move again. Carefully, inch by torturous inch, rhythm slow but deeply penetrating. There’s still a noticeable, alarming sensation when he reaches too far back but you grit your teeth and breath through your nose, hellbent on taking it silently like the good pet that you are.  
  
“You don’t have to be that quiet.” he says, as if on cue. “Makes some noise for me.”  
  
“I-I’m trying to -nyaan!” you manage, as he drives his hips into you. _Full, so full_ , and you unconsciously buck your hips back against his frame, using what little mobility you have left to try desperately to move with him.  
  
He growls his approval, his weight bearing down on you and forces your body flush against the berth, biting down softly between your neck and shoulder. Pain is a distant, abstract concept now, every nerve ending in your body screaming approval as he switches pace, _faster,faster._  
  
Somewhere between the harsh ex-vents, the whine of his cooling fans kicking on you realize that he’s close. You want to beg, beg him to overload so you can reach your own climax but you’re far beyond coherent speech now, and can only whimper as he leans down against your ear and demands that you do the same.  
  
“Overload for me.”

  
And that ultimately becomes the catalyst that sets you off, and you cry out a weak, breathless version of “Master!” as orgasm tears through you, static dancing over your skin as you ride out the aftershocks.  
  
He’s not far behind and hilts himself into you painfully hard as overload takes him and he spills himself inside you, swearing in static filled ex-vents as your convulsing body strangles his spike.  
  
You’re aware of a warm, almost hot fluid trickling down your thighs as he pulls himself out and a faint bolt of worry pulses through your mind, but it’s immediately quieted as he shakily removes the leash and reclines into a sidelong laying position, pulling you flush against his chassis.  
  
You say nothing for a beat, falling into hazy bliss as he absentmindedly pets your head. You’d readily welcome the urge to fall unconscious against the soft, rumbling vibrations of his frame if not for a persistent, nagging thought in the back of your head.  
  
“Hey,” you start, shifting around to rest your head under his helm, eyes still closed. “You weren’t serious about that uh, ‘kitten’ thing, right?”  
  
“I was just setting the mood.” he raises an optical ridge. “Why?”  
  
You frown, opening your eyes just a crack to look up at him. “That scientist chick that lives with Starscream warned me about this. Specifically, she told me not to.”  
  
“Did she say why?”  
  
“You scrunch your face in concentration. “Something about genetic compatibility. I don’t know. She wasn’t making a lot of sense.”  
  
His optics narrow, his expression a mixture of analytical concern and actual concern. You feel your heart drop into your stomach.  
  
“That shouldn’t be a problem Your rate of energon exposure was much, much lower than hers.”  
  
“ _Shouldn’t’_ be?” you ask, eyes wide. “You mean there’s still a risk?”  
  
“A small, calculated one.” he corrects you, closing his optics, clearly unconcerned “Now relax.”  
  
“Get fragged asshole.” you snarl.  
  
He opens a single optic. He smirks.  
  
“I just did.”  
  
  



End file.
